Control at Wayne Manor
by VictorianChik
Summary: Early Season 1, Short One-Shot. Bruce takes to hiding in the manor for a long day and Alfred is less than pleased. For Bruce, control has been and always will be an issue, not that Alfred would understand. Warning: Non-sexual spanking of a preteen/child.


Early Season 1

It was, Bruce reflected later, in rather bad taste to hide for so long. Especially after Alfred had caught him burning his hand.

But Alfred had called Jim Gordon, and that rubbed Bruce the wrong way. He liked Jim and he felt Jim's quest to find the right man who had murdered his parents was - well, important in a sort of awe-inspiring way. Bruce wasn't sure why, but he kind of liked the theatrical feel of it. He missed his parents, but since nothing would bring them back, he took comfort in the determined way Jim talked, a man with a mission, a man with conviction. (Bruce tried to sound like that but his voice often broke, making the seriousness of what he had to say less emphatic.)

But Alfred had been speaking out of turn, telling Jim all sorts of things about their lives. Bruce was certain his father wouldn't have approved of that – Dad had believed in respecting privacy and Mom had seconded that view. They had even started knocking before they came into Bruce's room and asking for permission to come in. (Alfred hadn't knocked that much, always claiming he had "forgot".)

Bruce meant to confront Alfred about blabbing secrets all over the place, but somehow every time he had faced the rigid man, Bruce had lost his nerve. Alone he made all sorts of plans to put the butler in his place, but when standing in front of him, Alfred's stern demeanor (and the fact that he was a foot taller than Bruce) halted any righteous talking-to.

So, one dreary Tuesday, Bruce had taken to hiding for the day, crawling from hiding place to dark corner to high beam without a sound. It was more fun than testing himself – he got to move like a shadow, a part of the dark that no one could see. Alfred had been within inches of him several times, but Bruce had softened his breathing and relaxed his body into the dark paneling so that the man went by without spotting him.

Alfred had been calling for him. Yelling, actually, and even swearing a few times and using the F-word once. Bruce had ground his teeth together at that. Mom and Dad hadn't allowed swearing – Bruce had gotten his mouth washed out with soap once for using the word "ass" at the dinner table. But Alfred was determined to run wild now that Mom and Dad weren't there.

So he had stayed hidden, stealing bits of food throughout the day, but constantly moving.

When the sun began to set in the early hours of the evening, the butler had lost all semblance of control.

"That is the last straw!" Alfred bellowed from downstairs.

Bruce crouched back at the top of his parents' armoire, hidden in the dim light of their room.

"I'm not putting up with this any longer," the butler stormed up the stairs to stand on the balcony so his voice would carry. "You don't hide from me, you little brat. I've locked all the outside doors, and I'm going through this house and locking every door tight so you can't escape. Then I'm searching every room, one at a time. And I got a hairbrush and when I find you, you're getting the thrashing of your life, my young sir!"

Bruce froze at that. A thrashing was serious. He should call Jim, tell him that his guardian was going to hit him for . . . well, for hiding all day. And Jim seemed to think that Alfred wasn't being strict enough. Ugh, maybe he'd call Jim later. First he had to get out of the house.

Alfred was going through the rooms, shutting doors and locking them. He was already in the rose guest bedroom.

Bruce jumped off the armoire, bending his knees and squatting almost to the ground to stay silent when he landed. He tiptoed out of his parents' room and into the hall. He flattened himself against the wall, ensconced between two wooden pillars that boasted carved vines. He peered right. Nothing.

He peered left. Nothing.

He dashed to the right.

And ran smack into Alfred.

He fell back a little, surprised that Alfred had grown. He seemed eight feet tall and sterner than ever.

"Got you, pup," Alfred grabbed him by the collar and spun him around. A sharp swat with something heavy landed on Bruce's backside.

He meant to launch into a lecture, to scold his butler for shouting in the house and locking doors, to speak as master of the house, and to honor the Wayne family name. What he actually did was wail in protest and try to kick Alfred in the kneecap.

The man avoided him easily and swept Bruce up over his shoulder, the hairbrush hand holding the back of his knees tight and the other hand out flat, smacking Bruce's rear as he squirmed. Bruce had forgotten that the man was so strong, something in his past about the military, but that whole bit had been easily dismissed considering that the man now spent his days cleaning the manor and fixing tea.

But the swats were quite sharp.

"No, Alfred, don't! Please! No!"

The butler was carrying him into his bedroom, and Bruce's stomach dropped as they entered the room.

He tried one last time to be forceful. "I – I order you to stop."

"Ha," Alfred sat on the bed and lifted him up off his shoulder, but then deposited Bruce facedown over his left knee.

"You – you said I could find my own way," Bruce tried to climb off, but the man's hold was like a vice.

"And you can, as long as that way doesn't include hiding from me. If something happens to you, the authorities will blame me, and I'm not having it."

"I'll tell them you hit me."

"Spanking a twelve-year-old is hardly a crime in this city. And believe me, there are enough poor, dissolute policemen on the force who would enjoy seeing a rich brat get his comeuppance. Hold still and let me finish."

Bruce thought about biting or clawing at the leg under him, but he just wiggled once last time in protest.

"You don't hide from me," Alfred started whacking with the hairbrush.

It took a ridiculously short amount of time for Bruce's eyes to fill with tears. He had thought he was beyond crying; he had decided after his parents' funeral that he would never let tears in his eyes again. But that resolution went away with the third crack of the hairbrush.

It was so unfair. He started making sad, short sobs and he felt sick and light-headed. Alfred must have swatted him a thousand more times (or eight exactly), but it was too upsetting to keep track.

The swats stopped and he was righted to stand between the man's knees.

Alfred hesitated for a second, doubt on his face. "Now, now –" he started.

But Bruce had already wrapped his arms around the man's shoulders and grabbed him tight. Alfred was warm and firm, and Bruce chattered as he shook, and lingering tears fell from his eyes.

"There you are," Alfred hugged him close. "No need to fuss. You'll make yourself sick, you will, with all this carrying-on."

"M'sorry," Bruce tried to regain his breath, but it kept catching in his chest.

"Shh, shh," Alfred pulled him to sit on his left knee, something Bruce hadn't done since he was six. "You're tired and overwrought. I'm going to draw the bath for you and then you'll have some dinner and then bed."

"It's only seven o'clock," Bruce tried to bring warmth back into his freezing hands. "And I don't take baths anymore, just showers."

"Ah, my mistake," Alfred nodded. "A shower then. Though lots of hot water might warm you up."

Bruce realized he was trying to dig his cold hands into Alfred's waistcoat and he dropped them to his sides, blinking furiously. "A – a bath might be nice tonight. But just this once. I – I cannot allow you to step out of bounds."

He though he saw Alfred's mouth twitch, but the man stayed serious.

"Of course not, Master Bruce. I thank you for letting me take this time to remind you of those bounds tonight. You took your punishment well."

That wasn't exactly true, but Bruce let the statement go unchallenged.

Alfred insisted on running the bath, but Bruce stared at him coldly when the man turned to offer him help undressing.

" 'Course, sir," Alfred nodded. "I'll be outside with the door cracked, 'case you need help."

The hot water felt immensely good to Bruce's cold hands and sore muscles from crouching most of the day and it eased the last of the sting out of his behind. The embarrassment of being spanked made his cheeks flush – he hadn't been spanked since he was seven and had thrown a book at Mom for making him go to bed while they went to a party.

He hadn't meant to throw the book. But he had been begging to out with them and she hadn't been really listening, putting on jewelry as her vanity while saying, "No, sweetie, we won't be back until late and it isn't a party for children."

"I'm not a child! I'm almost eight!" he had said.

"Bruce, no. You're staying with Alfred."

The injustice of it all was maddening, and he stared down at the book, _Treasure Island_, in rage and then some evil force must have taken hold of him because the next thing he knew he had thrown the book at Mom.

His aim had been off and it knocked against her shoulder. She had frozen and turned to look at him with wide, dismayed eyes – even now, that look haunted him with its hurt surprise. He had meant to apologize, so say sorry and really, really mean it, but hands grabbed him from behind.

He had watched the room flip upside down, and his stomach bumped against his father's hard knees, and a sharp smack landed on his bottom. The next few seconds had been pure nightmare as Dad spanked him, but then hell broke loose when Bruce had looked up to see Mom in front of them, tears rolling down her cheeks in dark marks from her mascara as she kept her hand over her shoulder where the book had hit. The distress on her face had been so terrible that Bruce had started bawling.

"You need to learn to control yourself." Dad had said somewhere from the fog of pain and tears. "You control yourself or other people get hurt. You're not a toddler – you're old enough to rein in your temper and control yourself."

A few moments later, Dad had pulled him to stand and told him to apologize to Mom. He had done so, barely able to get the words out, but she had reached over and picked him and got him to sit on her lap, telling him not to mind her satin dress as he cried into her warm embrace. Dad had been firm, but not angry, and they both hugged him and smoothed his hair before putting him to bed.

The next day they hadn't said anything about it because as Dad had once said, "Once you've been punished, it's over. But I expect you to learn from your punishment and not do it again." And the next time he got into an argument with his parents (this time wanting to go see a movie that they said was too scary), Dad gave him the same firm, but not angry look as a warning. Bruce had stomped off then, but nothing had been thrown.

In the hot water of the bathtub, Bruce wished more than anything that he had been nicer to his parents. He would have given anything to have them back, and he would do anything they asked – go to bed, be polite, eat broccoli, even submit to Alfred's fussing after him if they would just come back.

A hoarse choke of pain strangled in his throat. He swallowed the noise down, but Alfred opened the door and stepped in.

Bruce drew his knees up to his chest to give himself some privacy, but he couldn't quite manage a look of outrage as he was too busy blinking back more tears.

"Right, just making sure you didn't need anything," Alfred hesitated. "Few more minutes, and then I'll bring up some supper."

Bruce searched for the control inside him to be able to sit up and say in a calm voice, _"Thank you, Alfred, but I am perfectly capable of going downstairs to eat." _That control had to be somewhere buried deep in him, but it kept slipping away every time he tried to reach for it. He just nodded, pressing his trembling lips together.

Alfred looked like he might say something, but a flutter at the window caught his attention.

"What the blazes?" Alfred went to look.

"What is it?" Bruce turned to look, sloshing water against the sides of the tub.

"Na, don't get up. It's just a bat."

"A bat?"

"There's a cave around here somewhere. I see them flapping around at night. I should call the exterminator."

"No, don't do that," Bruce straightened back in the tub, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. "They're scary, but this is their home, too."

"Guess so. I've heard they eat the rats. We could always do with less vermin. Is the water hot enough?"

Bruce reached for the hot faucet, pausing to ask, "Can I have a chocolate cookie with supper?"

Alfred's lips twitched, but he answered, "Suppose that wouldn't hurt. If you behave, it might be two."

Bruce wanted to reply that once a punishment was over, it was over and you shouldn't keep nagging on it. But his throat still hurt, and Alfred wasn't Dad, and two cookies were better than one, and . . .

Alfred left.

Bruce turned the water on. As the temperature heated around his body, he looked out the window. The sky was a dark violet with twilight, but for a second, he caught sight of the bat with its wings outstretched, a dark silhouette against the sky. Perfect symmetry, perfect control.

Bruce turned the water off. He folded his arms over his chest and sunk deep underwater into the tub. He would only hold his breath for a few seconds so as not to scare Alfred when he returned with supper and cookies.


End file.
